


Takashi Shirogane Takes the World

by EdgarAllenPoet



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Autistic Keith (Voltron), Father-Son Relationship, Foster Care, Gen, Kid Fic, POV Shiro (Voltron), Past Abuse, bet you never saw this one coming, some sensitive language, the great gilly hopkins au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-11-30 04:52:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11456379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EdgarAllenPoet/pseuds/EdgarAllenPoet
Summary: Shiro has seen more foster homes than he has years on Earth, but he's certain that this one is the last.  He's fiesty, angry, and thinks he can handle anything.That's until he meets his new foster parents, with their never ending patience and understanding; his foster brother, with his bizarre habits; and the ghost of a boy who lives in his room, who turns into his best friend.  He's not ready for anything, but especially not a new family.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Putting yourself into the headspace of a thirteen year old is weird, and this is why I'll never write children's fiction. If you've never watched/read The Great Gilly Hopkins, you should. It's great.
> 
> Ages in this fic: 
> 
> Shiro- 13  
> Matt- 14  
> Keith- 8  
> Katie- somewhere between 18 and 24 months

“I really need you to try this time,” Mr. Marmora said, the car jerking as the front passenger wheel went over a pothole.  Shiro narrowed his eyes and squinted out the window.  He popped his gum.  This was a lecture he’d heard before. “You know what the next step is, after this.” 

 

Shiro grabbed one end of his gum between his thumb and his finger.  “Group home,” he muttered.  He knew.  Of course he knew.  He was thirteen and nobody wanted to keep him.  Everyone knew what happened next. 

 

“The Holts are very nice people, though.  I think you might like it here.” 

 

He pulled his gum out, rolled it between two fingers, and popped the newly formed ball back into his mouth.  Mr. Marmora grimaced.  It grossed him out.  Shiro knew that.  That’s why he did it. 

 

“You said that about the last place,” Shiro grumbled.  “Everyone’s “nice.”” 

 

Everyone except Shiro. Shiro wasn’t nice, not anymore.  That was the problem. 

 

“They have a lot of experience.”  It sounded like Mr. Marmora was trying to do a sales pitch, as if Shiro had any choice about moving into another dumpy house. 

 

“Like Ms. Montgomery?”

 

“We got you out of there as fast as we could.”  Mr. Marmora actually sounded pained by this conversation.  “We’ve talked about this.” 

 

Shiro scowled and popped his gum again, watched as they passed dumpy house after dumpy house, trapped in the middle of suburbia nowhere. “You’re the one who put me there,” he grumbled, hoping to hurt Mr. Marmora’s feelings, at least a little.

 

The man just sighed and pulled the car to a stop.  “We’re here.” 

 

There was someone waiting on the porch- a man holding hands with a small child, and a woman holding a baby on her hip.  Great, they were already loaded down with kids.  Shiro was moving into a daycare.  Fantastic.

 

He got out of the car, slammed the door behind him, and grabbed his bag out of the trunk.  He lugged his clothes around in a white garbage bag now, courtesy of the shelter after another kid stole his bag.  The house they were parked in front of looked nice- not fancy, but still nice.  They weren’t going to be impressed. 

 

“Come on, then.”  

 

Shiro trailed Mr. Mamora up the steps of the front porch, bag thrown over his shoulder, hand shoved into his hoodie pocket despite the heat.  He wasn’t embarrassed about it.  He wasn’t.  They just didn’t need to know just yet. 

 

His new foster parents were  _ far _ too happy to meet him.  “Takashi Shirogane,” the man said, holding his hand out to shake.  Shiro wasn’t ready yet, not yet.  He stared it down and said nothing, enjoying the awkward air as the man slowly lowered his hand and wiped it on his pants.  “Might I ask what you like to be called?” 

 

Shiro narrowed his eyes, wondering whether or not that was supposed to be a trick question.  But Mr. Marmora had said these people were smart.  Maybe they’d looked it up.  Maybe they were just overly polite- man, that would be annoying. 

 

“Shiro,” he eventually answered, voice flat and scowl even.  “You don’t get to call me by my given name.  You’re not family.” 

 

Mr. Marmora looked mortified (good), but the couple in front of them didn’t waiver.  “Of course,” the woman said. “It’s nice to meet you, Shiro.  I’m Dr. Holt, and my husband Mr. Holt, but you can call us Colleen and Sam if you’d like to.” 

 

“Doctor?” he asked skeptically. Mr. Marmora shuffled awkwardly. 

 

They were invited inside, and Shiro trailed behind the rest of the crowd as he made his way into the house, shugging off the hand Mr. Marmora tried to place on his shoulder.  The living room was messy, small.  It was strewn about with several magazines, a couple of books, some children’s toys.  The hall was littered in family photographs, and the kitchen was small.  There were stairs in the middle of the house, and Shiro squinted up at them curiously. 

 

“Would you like to see your room?” Mr. Holt asked him.  “We could put your bag upstairs.” 

 

“I don’t need help with it,” Shiro snapped when he reached out for it.  He took a step back.  Mr. Holt paused, smile still in place.  

 

“Alright,” he said.  “Upstairs, second door on the left.” 

 

They let him go upstairs by himself, which was at least a pleasant surprise.  His last home hadn’t allowed him to be anywhere out of eyeshot, and nowhere by himself.  They thought he was going to steal from them.  They weren’t the first to think so.  

 

He tried every door knob upstairs, just to see, but found none of them locked.  There was a bathroom, a closet, and a master bedroom.  One room was obviously a child’s room, with a racecar bed and a toybox.  A small room next to the master bedroom had rubber duck painted wall paper, a mobile, and a toddler bed.  The room indicated to be Shiro’s had two beds in it.  He stepped inside and scowled. 

 

There were posters on the walls already, from movies and school events, and pictures of planets torn out of the National Geographic.  There were a few trophies on the desk, and a rubix cube sitting on the nightstand.  Two beds, two dressers, one desk- he was obviously sharing with someone.  Shiro threw his bag into the middle of the room and stormed down the stairs as loudly as he could manage. 

 

He made his way into the kitchen and found Mr. Marmora absent.  He heard a car pulling away in the distance.  Great. 

 

Best to get down to business, then.  “Whose bed it that?” he asked.  Dr. Holt set the baby down in a high chair and looked up.  Mr. Holt threw him another smile, which was already getting irritating.  

 

“Our son Matt is away at a summer camp,” he explained.  “He’ll be back in July, though.  He’s only there for a month.” 

 

“It’s a STEM program,” Dr. Holt boasted proudly.  “A head start for high school.  He’s going to a magnet nearby.” 

 

Shiro could not have cared less.  “Good for him,” he droned. “We’re sharing?” 

 

“When he returns, yes,” Mr. Holt said, “But you have a month to get used to this before he returns.” 

 

Shiro didn’t know if he’d still be here in a month.  He scowled.  “Sure.” 

 

There was a brief exchange, then, where Dr. Holt pressed a kiss to Mr. Holt’s cheek and a dish cloth into his hands.  They were just way too domestic.  It was gross.  “I’ll see you tonight,” she said, ruffled the baby’s hair, and scooped up a briefcase from the kitchen table.  “I’m glad you’re here with us, Shiro,” she said, turning her attention to him.  “Have a good day, now.” 

 

And with that she was breezing out the door, and there was another car pulling out of the driveway.  Shiro regarded the baby, cooing happily in her high chair and arranging Cheerios into a line.  Mr. Holt leaned over to wipe something wet off her face and tossed the dishcloth into the sink.  

 

“So you’re the housekeeper then?” Shiro asked him, trying purposefully to sound unimpressed.  Mr. Holt was a good actor.  He didn’t seem put back at all. 

 

“I guess that’s one way you could say it,” he said with a smile. 

 

“You don’t have a job?” Shiro asked.

 

Mr. Holt glanced over at him with kind eyes, wrinkled with smile lines.  “Not anymore,” he said.  Shiro wondered why he was so damn happy all the time.  He took in a heavy sigh and tried not to roll his eyes.  “Keith is watching PBS in the living room if you’d like to join him while I make lunch.” 

 

Now that was the most ridiculous suggestion Shiro had heard in a long time.  He wasn’t in a house that thought he was a thief.  He was in a house that thought he was a preschooler.   He pursed his lips and asked, “Why would I want to watch a retard show like that?” 

 

Mr. Holt’s face hardened, just when Shiro was starting to think he was all smiles.   There was something satisfying about cracking through it.  “I know you’re new here, so let’s get something straight early,” he said, voice stern, as if that would have any effect on Shiro. 

 

He very carefully kept his surprise off his face.  He raised his chin and said nothing. 

 

“We do not use that word in this house,” Mr. Holt continued.  “I will not have anyone saying any such thing about Keith-” 

 

And that was where Shiro had to interrupt.  “I didn’t say  _ anything _ about Keith!” he protested.

 

“You said  _ ‘retarded’ _ and I will not stand for that.  He has had a hard enough shot at life, and he doesn’t need anyone else making him feel bad about himself.”  Shiro didn’t do well with adults snapping at him.  He glanced into the living room, at the little boy camped out in front of the TV, eyes glued to the screen while he rolled a toy car up and down his leg. 

 

“Okay,” he answered.  “Geez, whatever.  I’ll go watch the show, okay?” 

 

That seemed to placate him at least a little bit.  He slowly replaced the smile back onto his face and nodded.  “Okay.” 

 

“Alright….” Shiro held both hands up in front of him, a sort of mocking gesture, as he backed out of the kitchen towards the living room.  

 

The show on the TV was definitely a retard show, with poorly drawn characters and magical dragons.  Shiro threw himself down on the couch and sighed loudly.  The boy didn’t seem to notice. 

 

“So you’re Keith, huh?” Shiro asked.  No response.  Shiro narrowed his eyes and tried again.  

 

“Um, hello?  Keith?” 

 

Nothing.  Shiro cleared his throat.  Nada. 

 

He picked up a pillow off the couch and threw it, smacking Keith in the back of the head with it.  “Hey!” 

 

Shiro never would have expected the response that got.  Keith leapt away, screeching like a wet cat, throwing his arms over his head like he’d been struck.  

 

“What?” Shiro demanded, irritated by all the fuss he was causing.  “What are you doing?” 

 

Keith scrambled to his feet and fled the room, stumbling into the kitchen.  Shiro watched him run to Mr. Holt and cling onto his pant leg, burying his face in Mr. Holt’s hip.  He sure was small, especially since Mr. Marmora had said he’s supposed to be eight years old.  Far too tiny for eight, and too skittish too.  Shiro sat up properly.  Mr. Holt was probably going to get angry now, and Shiro didn’t want to stick around for that. He’d try some childish punishment, or he’d start screaming, or something worse.  Shiro didn’t want to find out which. 

 

Just as he was standing up to leave, Mr. Holt cast him a smile.  “It’s alright, Keith,” he said softly.  “It’s alright.  He didn’t mean anything by it.  You’re okay, right?” 

 

Keith nodded.  He didn’t say anything, just nodded. His hands were shaking.  Shiro was still ready to run. 

 

“Keith, kiddo, squeeze?” Mr. Holt said.  Keith nodded, frantically and quickly, up and down.  And then the weirdest thing happened.  Mr. Holt place both hands on the sides of Keith’s head and squeezed in.  Keith closed his eyes, and he started rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.  Back and forth, back and forth, humming. 

 

Shiro had obviously moved into a mad house.  Whatever was going on, he didn’t want to see anymore of this.  He didn’t want to see the weird kid who screamed but didn’t talk, or Mr. Holt with his smiling, or the stupid tiny baby.  He wanted to be alone, or back at the shelter even. 

 

Shiro shoved himself up from the couch and stormed his way upstairs, slamming his door shut behind him.  Not his door.   _ The  _ door. 

 

The room was weird, decorated with someone else’s things and inconveniently small, though it would be selfish of Shiro to assume he’d have his own room at a home like this.  His garbage bag of clothes was where he’d left it in the middle of the floor, and he didn’t touch it as he stormed through the room and threw himself down on the bed.

 

“One more house,” he said aloud, to himself, staring at the ceiling that someone else had taped plastic glow stars to.  What a juvenile thing to do.  What idiot was he going to be living with here?  “One more,” Shiro repeated.  

 

His mom had said she’d be back, and Shiro knew it had to be soon.  She wouldn’t let him get put in a group home, he knew it.  She was keeping tabs on him.  He’d gotten her letters. 

 

‘See you soon,’ she’d said in the most recent on a few months ago.  She’d meant it this time, he knew it.  One more house, and he’d get to go live in California with her.  San Francisco, like she’d always said.

 

Downstairs Shiro heard the baby scream in laughter, heard the radio get turned on.  Children’s music filtered in through the floor, and there was the pounding sound of dancing feet.  Shiro had a headache.  He pulled the pillow over his head. 

 

It smelled weird, unfamiliar.  

 

One more house, he told himself.  Before long he’d be allowed to go home.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Shiro frowned and stared at him blankly, not speaking as Keith snuck past his legs and darted past Shiro into the living room. PBS was still playing on the TV. The Arthur theme song filtered through the house. Keith went straight to his toy car and picked it up again, crouched down, and rolled it over his knees, just like before. Shiro sighed and tilted his head at Mr. Holt."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't believe people actually like this self-indulgent little thing? Amazing. I can't promise it'll be any good, and I can't promise regular updates. But thank you for reading, and thanks for the kind words!

Shiro emerged from his room several hours later with his headache gone and his stomach rumbling. He hadn’t gone down for lunch, and he didn’t know what the food situation was in this house.  Some foster parents had an open-fridge system.  Some kept everything locked up under deadbolts. Some insisted on scheduled meal times, while others could barely remember to feed them or made the kids do the cooking.

 

All things considered, Shiro wasn’t expecting much as he crept down the stairs on tiptoes and peeked around the corner into the kitchen.  

 

Mr. Holt came through the doorway just as Shiro was approaching it, and it startled Shiro bad enough to make him jump back and gasp.  His heart was pounding.  A giggle behind him grabbed his attention, and he turned to see the baby sitting on the floor laughing and clapping her hands.  Shiro frowned at her. 

 

“What are you laughing at?” 

 

She paid him no mind, pushing herself up shakily to her feet and toddling right past him.  She ran to Mr. Holt and held both arms up, saying “Dinner time,” in a childish voice that left out the letter ‘r.’  The kid from earlier, Keith, with the floppy mess of dark hair and the giant eyes poked his head out from behind Mr. Holt.  Shiro sighed and put his hand over his eyes.  He was living with a bunch of  _ babies _ . 

 

“You’re right, Pidgeon.  It is dinner time,” Mr. Holt said, swinging the child up into his arms.  “Hey Shiro, how about you go across the street and get Commander Iverson for supper?” 

 

Shiro frowned and stared at him blankly, not speaking as Keith snuck past his legs and darted past Shiro into the living room.  PBS was still playing on the TV.  The Arthur theme song filtered through the house.  Keith went straight to his toy car and picked it up again, crouched down, and rolled it over his knees, just like before.  Shiro sighed and tilted his head at Mr. Holt. 

 

“What?” 

 

“Commander likes to join us for evening meals,” Mr. Holt explained.  “He’ll be very pleased to meet you.” 

 

Shiro didn’t see why he’d care to meet him at all, but adults didn’t like it when you asked questions like that.  He frowned again.  “You call him commander?” 

 

Mr. Holt chuckled at that, and Shiro couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being laughed at.  It wasn’t helping his mood. 

 

“A old joke between colleagues,” was the explanation he offered before he was shooing Shiro out the door with a gentle hand in the middle of his back.  Shiro quickly stepped away from the touch and stomped his way down the porch stairs, across the street, and up the concrete steps at the house directly across from them.  The door didn’t have a bell, so he wracked his knuckles against it several times before stuffing his hands into his pockets and stepping back to wait. 

 

Enough time passed that Shiro was about to knock again, and just as he was reaching up, the door swung open.  He immediately jumped backwards. 

 

The man on the other side of the door was frightening at first- tall and broad, bald except for a greying beard.  He glared down at Shiro with one squinted eye- the other was cloudy and unmoving.  His face was rough, skin thick like he’d spent a lot of time out in the weather, and there was a scar down his cheek that stood out nearly black against his already dark brown complexion.  

 

Shiro swallowed hard and tried to get his voice to work.  “Um… hello… are you Commander?” 

 

The man’s face cracked at that, just barely a smile.  “You’re Sam’s new boy, then, aren’t you?” he asked.  Shiro wasn’t anyone’s boy.  “Mitch Iverson, nice to meet you.”  

 

He held his hand out to shake, and Shiro held his breath for a second before extending his own and shaking.  Iverson didn’t even flinch, didn’t seem to notice the difference.  He shook Shiro’s hand and let it fall back to his side. 

 

“Takashi, isn’t it?” 

 

The only person who could ever call him Takashi was his mother.  He frowned anew.  How many times would he have to do this?  “It’s Shiro, actually.” 

 

“Surname?” Iverson asked, and Shiro nodded, shocked that he would know that.  Iverson nodded too. 

 

“Let’s be going then.”  He shut the door behind him, not bothering to lock it, and started his way across the street.  Shiro followed after him, hands hidden deep in his pockets, silently listening as the old man talked.  “It sure is nice of Sam and Colleen to take you in,” he stated.  “Then again they’ve always had a soft spot for children.” 

 

Shiro hated when people talked to him like that.   _ Oh look, these people are such a saint, they’re letting you live in their home. _  Well Shiro didn’t want to be here, and Shiro didn’t  _ ask _ to be here, so as far as he was concerned, he didn’t have to be grateful for anything.  Besides, bad people could be foster parents too.  It wasn’t anything special. 

 

Shiro shrugged.  “Yeah,” he said, because Iverson didn’t seem like the kind of guy Shiro wanted to cross.  “They’re cool.” 

 

“‘Cool,’” he said, tone curious.  He shook his head.  Shiro didn’t know what that was about. 

 

If he’d thought the rest of the day had been annoying, dinner was definitely worse.  He sat at the table across from Keith, and there were empty chairs next to both of them.  Iverson and Mr. Holt both had chairs at the ends of the table, and ‘Pidgeon’ or whatever her name was had a high chair next to her father.  She talked incessantly through dinner, stringing together sentences that barely made sense and had very little to do with anything. 

 

Mr. Holt actually held a conversation with her.  It was the weirdest thing. 

 

The worst part of dinner, though, was that Keith wouldn’t stop staring at his hand.  

 

Shiro had gotten rather used to eating with his left hand.  In fact, he did most things with it, but passing heavy bowls around the table required two hands, and that, of course, put him on display. 

 

It wasn’t something he thought about when he was alone.  It had been eight years since his accident, after all.  He was used to functioning with his missing hand.  There was a difference between being used to it and being stared at though.   _ That  _ made him uncomfortable. 

 

Keith- the little weirdo- had his mouth gaping open.  Shiro glared back at him, and when neither Iverson or Mr. Holt were paying them any attention, he pulled his lips back and bared his teeth, jerking forwards. 

 

Keith flinched back violently, fork dropping from his hand with a clatter and drawing the attention of the two men.  “Whoops,” Mr. Holt said, reached down to grab it.  He wiped it on his napkin and handed it back.  “Good as new.”   Keith took the thing, but he didn’t stop staring at Shiro with wide, terrified eyes.

 

Good. 

 

“Shiro.”  Mr. Holt snapped Shiro out of his thoughts and had him jerking his head up.  Maybe he’d seen.  Maybe he had another stupid lecture about being nice, about Keith being normal or whatever.  Shiro tried his best to look innocent.  He couldn’t have prepared himself for the 180 Mr. Holt threw at him.  “Would you like to say grace?” 

 

Shiro blinked. 

 

“What?” 

 

“Prayer, before our meal.” 

 

So his new foster parents were religious.  Well that was just fantastic.  Shiro blinked again. 

 

“Um…” he said slowly.  “No.” 

 

Mr. Holt wasn’t phased at all.  He looked at Keith and asked him.  Instead of answering, Keith’s response was to cast a frightened glance around the table and chew hard on his bottom lip.  

 

“Next time, maybe,” Mr. Holt said, calming Keith from whatever tiny meltdown he’d just been having.  Weirdo.  Shiro folded his hands but didn’t duck his head as Mr. Holt lead them through a common table prayer.  It took all of twenty-seconds, but that was a long time to wait to eat. 

 

“You and that poppycock, Samuel,” Iverson said after the prayer, shaking his fork at Mr. Holt across the table and talking around a mouth full of potatoes.  Shiro took the biggest bite of meatloaf that he could manage.  “God.  Ghosts.  Aliens.” 

 

Mr. Holt shot him back an amused expression.  He made that face a  _ lot _ , Shiro was noticing.  Why did he think everything was so dang entertaining?  “Live and let live, Commander,” he responded, earning him an eye roll from the other man. 

 

A  _ single _ eye roll.  Iverson’s cloudy blue eye didn’t budge.  He chewed with his mouth open. 

 

“I’ll let you live, but I reserve the right to hassle you.” 

 

“Wait,” Shiro said, unable to help himself.  He’d just swallowed the huge mouthful of meatloaf, otherwise he would have spoken sooner.  “Aliens?” he asked. 

 

“See?” Iverson said immediately.  “Even the kid thinks you’re a loon.” 

 

Shiro scowled at that.  “I’m not a kid.” 

 

“Sure, kid.” 

 

“I said-” 

 

“Are you an alien?” 

 

The sudden appearance of a foreign voice caught Shiro off mid-sentence.  He looked across the table to find Keith staring at him again, eyes wide and fixated on Shiro’s right arm where it rested on the table.  He quickly pulled it back to himself and dropped it into his lap.  It wasn’t any of that little punk’s business. 

 

“What?” he asked. “No.” 

 

Mr. Holt was frowning slightly.  He quietly said, “Keith, polite questions, remember?” 

 

Keith frowned back at him and set his fork down.  “But he looks funny,” he said, voice just above a whisper, but Shiro definitely heard him.  “His hands missing.  And his face is hurt.  He looks like an alien.” 

 

Shiro didn’t need to put up with this.  He didn’t  _ want  _ to put up with this.  He shoved his chair back from the table and stormed out of the room and up the stairs, ignoring Mr. Holt calling behind him.  When he got upstairs he slammed the door of his new bedroom and took his frustration out on his bag of clothes, kicking the plastic lump across the room so it smacked into the wall.  There was a mirror on one of the dressers, and he went to it, scowling at his reflection as soon as he saw it.

 

The scar on his nose wasn’t that bad.  He knew it could be worse.  It was just a small line, maybe an inch long, stretching over the bridge of his nose and stopping under his left eye.  The doctors said he’d gotten from a piece of glass from the windshield when his mom crashed the car.  They said don’t worry about it, young skin heals fast. There were other things to worry about anyways, like his hand.

 

He was used to it by now.  Of course he was, it had been eight years.  He was just as functional with one hand as he would be with two, and on normal days it didn’t bother him at all that his right arm only extended down to the middle of his forearm, stopping before the wrist, because it’d been too crushed to save.  The surgeries were expensive.  His mother had never had a lot of money. 

 

That was okay though.  When Shiro went to live with her, he’d get a job to help her with the bills.  He wouldn’t be a burden.  He’d make her happy to have him there.  He’d been all the was in San Francisco, in a big city with lots of jobs and lots of people and no more stupid foster families.  No weirdo kids who only spoke when they were making fun of him.  No annoying foster dads or babbling babies or creepy next door neighbors. 

 

It was only a matter of time.  Shiro just had to wait.  It’d be worth it, he knew it would. 

 

For now though he felt too big for his skin. The room was too small, and he could still hear the conversation going down below.  He couldn’t go out the front door without asking questions, and he didn’t really want to go  _ anywhere _ , just out.  His attention caught on the bedroom window and an idea started forming in his head.  He crossed to it and looked out. 

 

Sure enough, there was a ledge under his bedroom window, a small expanse of room from where the first floor jutted out further than the second.  There was a screen on the window, but it’d be easy to pop out of place.  This was Shiro’s lucky day.

 

He tugged the window open and pulled on the springs holding the screen in until it popped free.  He yanked it off and set it down on the roof outside, as quietly as he could manage.  Then he climbed out the window after it, tugged it mostly closed from the outside, and sat down with the darkening evening sky. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Shiro looked straight into the eyes of the boy who asked for the ball back, spit at his feet, and ran."

Nobody woke Shiro up the next morning, which was strange.  The last home he’d stayed in had the kids up every morning at six.  The center didn’t  _ make _ you get up that early, but breakfast only lasted from seven to eight.  If you wanted a chance to eat in the morning, you’d better be there.

 

Which was probably why, when Shiro woke up to find the alarm clock across the room bleeding the time “10:17” he damn near had a heart attack right there.  His heart flew away from him, beating double time, as he launched himself out of bed and scrambled into daytime clothes.  

 

He had to dig them out of his trash bag, which he’d never unpacked and had left abandoned in the middle of the room.  He dug through it, yanking out a t-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts, pulling on the jeans he’d worn the day before.  Then he pulled on his socks and laced up his tennis shoes, and very carefully peeked his head out the doorway to listen downstairs.  

 

It was quiet, but not too quiet.  A children’s TV program was playing, and there was the sound of adult conversation downstairs.  He tiptoed to the bathroom down the hallway, where he found none other than Keith hanging out, rolling a small toy car around in the sink and making ‘vroom’ noises with his mouth. 

 

They both froze when Shiro stepped into the bathroom.  Keith stared at him with wide eyes for a long second, and it made Shiro nervous, to just have the kid staring at him.  “What?” he asked, more bite to his voice than he really meant to have.  Keith jumped at that, squeaking quietly, and scrambled around Shiro and down the hallway. 

 

Well, okay.  That problem solved then.  What a weirdo. 

 

There was a stack of items on the bathroom counter that caught Shiro’s attention, mainly because they were topped with a post-it note with his name on it.  He looked the stack over, holding the note between his fingers.  A towel and a wash cloth, both green, a brand new toothbrush still in its package, and an unopened stick of Old Spice deodorant. 

 

Nice. 

 

For a moment, an angry part of himself considered throwing all of it in the trash, just to prove some kind of a point.  But, well, he didn’t have a way of replacing it if he did that, and he’d really only be screwing himself over. 

 

Fine, he’d keep it, but one day he’d be old enough to have a job, and then he could stop accepting people’s handouts.  He’d buy his own damn toothbrush and whatever type of deodorant he wanted.  It would be  _ awesome _ . 

 

He mentally added it to his “eventually” list as he turned on the shower spray and found a family sized container of shampoo on a shelf.  They hadn’t put any in his pile, so he assumed he was allowed to use there’s.  Just in case, he decided, he’d only take a little bit.  If he didn’t take a lot, maybe they wouldn’t mind. 

 

One day he’d buy his own shampoo too, and he could use as much of it as he wanted.  He could use a whole bottle at once, if he wanted to.  One day he’d be successful and rich and he could choose to be wasteful. 

 

Eventually, he decided, but for today this would have to do.  Just until he found his mom and started his real life.  That would happen soon enough.  Maybe this was okay for now. 

  
  
  


…

  
  


Shiro sat on the back stoop and watched Keith wander around the backyard, toy car in hand.  He sighed heavily and dropped his chin onto the palm of his hand, holding the weight up with his knees.  He felt hazy and tired in the early summer sun, too lazy to get up and  _ do _ anything, too bored to want to bother.  It’s not like there was anything to do around this dumpy place.  He was too big to bother with the swing set Keith was crawling all over, and the garden along the back fence had only been interesting for so long. 

 

“Why don’t you and Keith go to the park?” Mrs. Holt’s voice (or, Dr. Holt, apparently) spoke behind him and startled him out of his thoughts, causing him to jump out of his skin and brace his hand on the step so he wouldn’t topple over.  Dr. Holt chuckled, and Shiro scowled up at her through the curtain of hair hanging over his eyes.  He swiped it out of the way.  He didn’t like being laughed at.  

 

She was dressed professionally again, which was different from the pajamas she’d still been wearing when he’d made his way downstairs after his shower.  She had on some kind of suit thing.  Shiro thought it looked kind of dumb. 

 

“The park?” he asked. 

 

Dr. Holt nodded and called Keith over. He peeked up from a hiding place behind the plastic slide of the swing set.  “You guys should go play,” she said.  Shiro scowled again. 

 

“I’m too old to  _ play _ ,” Shiro said with a roll of his eyes.  Obviously.  Who did she think he was?  The last thing Shiro wanted to do at this stupid ass foster home was go babysit his stupid ass foster brother at the park. 

 

“Go  _ hang out _ at the park, then,” Dr. Holt appeased, digging in her purse before handing Shiro a five dollar bill.  “You could go get some ice cream.  Keith, sweetie, get a popsicle remember?  You don’t want to get sick.” 

 

Keith came trotting over at that, and he nodded up to Dr. Holt before turning his wide eyes on Shiro.  Shiro sighed loudly, doing his best to prove he wanted  _ nothing _ to do with this. 

 

“Fine,” he grumbled.  “Whatever.  Let’s go.” 

  
  


…

 

Shiro let Keith lead the way to the park since he didn’t have any idea where it was.  He was a little worried about trusting the mute little idiot to get them there, but it turned out to only be three blocks away.  That would have been pretty hard to mess up. 

 

Once there Shiro lead them directly to the ice cream cart parked over by the restrooms, because if he  _ had _ to be here, he was at least getting something good out of it.  His drum stick and Keith’s popsicle weren’t very expensive.  They had two dollars and fifty cents left over. 

 

“Cool,” Shiro said, walking away from the cart and folding up the money. Keith trotted along behind him and tugged at his hand.  He was clutching his Hot Wheels car in one hand and holding his still wrapped popsicle between his teeth.  Shiro stopped, surprised. 

 

“What?” he asked. 

 

Keith pointed at his hand.  Shiro would really rather put the money away  _ quickly _ .  He was holding his drum stick between his other forearm and his chest, and if he kept it there too long it was going to melt away.  Keith didn’t say anything, just pointed again with his grubby little fingers. 

 

“ _ What _ ?” Shiro snapped.  Keith’s eyes widened.  He paused, screwed his face up, and thought for a long second.  Shiro was losing his patience.  He was about to snap again when Keith spit the popsicle out of his mouth and onto the ground and prodded at Shiro’s hand. 

 

“Quarters,” he said, the first word Shiro had ever heard him speak.  His voice was absurdly quiet.  “Can I have the quarters?” 

 

Shiro just wanted to get this over as quickly as possible so he could eat his damn ice cream.  What was he going to do with quarters anyways?  He sighed and handed them over, shoving the dollar bills in his pocket.  “Whatever.  Pick up your popsicle.” 

 

Keith did that, staring wide eyed at his quarters for a long moment before slipping them into his pocket and crouching down to pick his treat up off the floor.  Shiro unwrapped his own with his teeth and set off across the park to find someplace to sit.  Keith didn’t spare him a second thought before sprinting off into the jungle gym with the rest of the little monsters. 

 

Well, good.  At least Shiro would get some peace and quiet.  Or so he thought.  He was only about ten feet away from his bench when something unexpectedly hit him in the back of the head.  It hurt, and he pitched forward, losing his balance, tripping over his feet, and falling hard.  

 

He dropped his ice cream so he could catch himself with his hand, instinctively tucking his bad arm into his chest.  That didn’t save him from scraping up his palm, both his elbows, and his knees.  He hissed in a breath as he sat up, blinking back the surprised sting that prickled behind his eyes and looking down at his raw hand.  Well, that was just great. 

 

“Whoa!  Are you okay!” someone nearby exclaimed over the sound of running feet.  The guilty basketball rolled around to Shiro’s left, and idle back and forth on the sidewalk.  Shiro glared at it.  A group of four boys came running over, all about Shiro’s age, maybe a little older.  Shiro glared at them too. 

 

“Oh shit,” he heard someone whisper.  “Look at his arm.” 

 

“Gross….”

 

“What happened to your hand?” someone else asked, not even trying to keep his voice down. 

 

“Can you toss the ball back?” 

 

No, Shiro decided.  No he could not.  He pulled the ball over with his hand, keeping his other arm tucked in and safe.  He pulled it up, cradling it against his chest, and slowly rose to his feet.  Then he looked straight into the eyes of the boy who asked for the ball back, spit at his feet, and ran. 

 

He ran like a rabbit escaping a hunt, pumping his legs as fast as he could and letting the outraged cries of the following crowd egg him on faster.  His knees were sore as hell, and he struggled not to lose his balance again as he sprinted through the park, around the jungle gym, and over a wooden bridge that crossed a creek.  A creek?  Boo-ya. 

 

He kept going, following a walking path and shoving middle aged joggers out of the way, clearing a space for the boys who followed him.  This, he decided, was a lot of fun.  It was better than sitting around at the Holts’ all day.  Better than anything he’d gotten up to in a while.  

 

Within a short amount of time the creek turned into a pond, and that’s when Shiro saw his chance.  He skidded to a stop, swung the ball out behind him, and lobbed it out over the water with as much strength as he possessed.  It landed dead center in the pond with a pretty great splash, startling away a couple of ducks.  

 

That’s when the others reached him.  Someone grabbed onto his shirt, and Shiro let loose, throwing his fist and his knees and elbows, fighting the way he learned how from years and years of standing up to assholes.  So maybe this wasn’t the same as facing bullies on the elementary school playground, but it was just as satisfying. 

 

They fought and screamed and kicked up dirt until hands larger than their own grabbed hold of them and pulled them apart, nearby adults taking responsibility for the situation at hand.  

  
  


…

  
  


It turned out Keith’s mute-ness could be a good thing.  He came running over when the adults dragged them all back towards the center of the park, looking for parents and other responsible adults.  Someone’s dad came over and took them away.  Other kids were already known pretty well in the neighborhood.  Nobody knew who Shiro was, and apparently they didn’t know Keith either.  Neither boy was giving them any clues. 

 

Eventually, after a long and frustrating one sided conversation, where they tried everything within their power to get either boy to talk, the adults just gave up and let them go. 

 

“Just go home!” the woman shouted at them, voice shrill.  Shiro hated her.  “You’re lucky we don’t know who your parents are!” 

 

Shiro scowled at them and stormed away, Keith hot on his heels.  He let Keith tug on his arm, his  _ bad _ arm, as he pulled Shiro off down the road in the wrong direction.  They returned to the house half an hour later, taking a roundabout way to get there.  So the adults wouldn’t track them, maybe.  Maybe Keith was smarter than Shiro gave him credit for.  

 

He didn’t feel so sour about giving him the quarters, after that.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “ 'I don’t need your help,' Shiro repeated, balling his fists. Mr. Holt didn’t even flinch. "

  
  


Shiro and Keith were an absolute mess when they walked through the Holt’s back door.  Shiro had realized this before they’d gone inside of course, and he’d done his best to clean them both up with the spigot jutting out of the back of the house.  Keith hadn’t been on board with that plan at all, though.  When Shiro reached for him with wet hands to scrub the sugary ice cream mess off his face, he’d shrieked and darted carefully out of reach.  

 

He resigned himself to cleaning the dirty scrapes on his elbows, knees, and hands and pushing his overgrown bangs down like a curtain to hide his black eye. 

 

They walked in like that- Shiro, wet, sweaty, and muddy, with a black eye and bloody knees.  Keith with a face covered in ice cream and leaves stuck in his hair from sneaking through the neighbor’s hedges on the way home.  Mr. Holt took one look at them and tried to keep the surprise off his face. 

He failed. 

 

There was a long minute of a pause, where Shiro sucked in his breath and prepared himself to be screamed at.  Mr. Holt was going to crack; he just knew it. 

 

Instead, Mr. Holt took a deep breath himself and turned back to the alphabet puzzle he and Pidge had spread out on the kitchen table.  Pidge was sitting on the table, chubby legs tucked under herself, the letter ‘M’ clutched in one fist, the letter ‘R’ stuck in her mouth.  Mr. Holt reached over and gently tugged it away. 

 

“You should drink some juice, Keith,” he said eventually, voice entirely even, as if there weren’t two boy shaped disasters standing in his kitchen.  Keith’s eyes flitted to the fridge as he considered. 

 

“Need a bath,” he said instead, voice tiny like a whisp of wind, words almost too fast to make out. 

 

“Want help?” Mr. Holt asked.  Keith quickly shook his head. 

 

“Ten minutes,” he said, and Shiro wasn’t sure what that meant, but Mr. Holt nodded.  

 

“Okay, kiddo,” he agreed with the nod of his head, casting Keith a fond smile.  “Do you want the timer?” 

 

“I’ll read the clock,” was Keith’s reply before he bolted out of the room and up the stairs, feet moving so lightly you could barely hear him at all.  Shiro watched him go. 

 

“How about you?” Mr. Holt asked, and it took Shiro a moment to realize he was speaking to him.  “Want some juice?  You’re awfully red.  It’s easy to get dehydrated on hot days like this.” 

 

Shiro narrowed his eyes, cast a glance between the fridge and Mr. Holt.  One day when he was a grown up, he’d have an apartment and a fridge of his own, and he’d be able to chug juice straight out of the carton.  They showed guys on TV doing that.  Shiro had always wanted to.

 

Not his fridge, not his juice.  Shiro shook his head.  “I’ll just have some water.”  They’d shown him where the cups were in the cupboards the night before, so he got one down and filled it up at the tap, Mr. Holt watching him all the way.  Shiro couldn’t read his expression.

 

Shiro turned to look at him, narrowed his eyes automatically.  He raised his cup to his lips and took a drink, tucking his gimpy arm around him tightly.  

 

“Is that a bruise on your face?” he asked, taking the ‘R’ back out of Pidge’s mouth. 

 

Shiro didn’t know why that question pissed him off, of why he immediately recoiled from it.  But he did, feeling defensive as he snapped, “Well it’s not makeup.” 

 

Mr. Holt’s response was a smile, confusing as ever.  “If it was, you’d have to let Colleen teach you a thing or two.  Can’t have our boy out there with raccoon eyes.” 

 

Shiro threw the rest of the water back with a gulp, dropping the plastic cup in the sink with a clatter.  “I’m not  _ your boy _ ,” he hissed out, feeling something tight and angry in his chest at Mr. Holt’s words.  He felt… embarrassed?  Humiliated.  He’d had enough of that for one day.  “And I’m  _ not _ wearing make up.  I don’t need your help with anything.” 

 

He was aiming to hurt.  Aiming to do some kind of harm so that Mr. Holt would stop talking to him, drop the act, stop acting like he  _ liked _ him.  Mr. Holt just blinked back patiently. 

 

“I crossed a line,” he said.  “I’m sorry about that.  I was just teasing.” 

 

Shiro felt like a child as he spit back, “It wasn’t funny.”  God, he was such an idiot.  He wanted to bang his head into the wall.  He closed his eyes for a moment. 

 

“I apologize.” 

 

The worst part was that Mr. Holt sounded so sincere.  He was  _ apologizing _ , and here Shiro was being an idiot.  Why couldn’t he just get angry like normal adults?  Why couldn’t he just yell and lecture and throw a fit?  That, at least, Shiro would know how to deal with.  He didn’t like feeling off balance. 

 

“There’s antiseptic in the bathroom upstairs for the cuts,” Mr. Holt said as Shiro turned to storm out of the kitchen.  “Ice in the freezer, to take the swelling out of your eye.” 

 

“I don’t need your help,” Shiro repeated, balling his fists.  Mr. Holt didn’t even flinch. 

 

“Doesn’t mean I can’t offer it.”  Yeah, whatever.  Shiro turned, grabbed the ice pack out of the freezer, and made his way towards the stairs.  Mr. Holt’s voice stopped him again as he was stepping onto the stairs.  “And Shiro?” he called out.  Shiro sighed loudly and stopped. 

 

“What?” 

 

“If there’s something you want to talk about, bruise or otherwise, you can trust me.” 

 

Yeah, right.  Shiro rolled his eyes and stomped his way up the stairs to the bedroom he was staying in, shutting the door firmly behind him and collapsing onto the bed that was his for another few weeks or so.  “You can trust me,” he mimicked, voice squeaky and face screwed up as he glared at the ceiling.  There were plastic glow stars stuck up there.  How juvenile.  How  _ ridiculous _ . 

 

Just like Keith.  Just like this entire afternoon.  Just like Shiro…. 

 

Shiro wondered who stuck them up there, wondered what his phantom roommate was actually like.  Some weirdo boy who stuck stars to his ceiling, to the ceiling he’d had his whole damn life.  Shiro had seen the notches in the hallway door frame, measuring someone with the initials ‘M.H.’ (their son Matt, he imagined), up through childhood.  There were notches that read ‘K.K.’ too, significantly shorter than the others.  Maybe that was Keith. 

 

Shiro wondered how long he’d been here.  How long he himself was going to be here.  He wondered if he’d ever actually have to live with this Matt character, what he would actually be like.  Shiro was dead curious, and that’s when he made up his mind. 

 

He tossed the ice away, crossed the room, and hesitated in front of the other’s dresser.  There ought to be something hidden in there- some kind of clue.  Shiro held his breath, weighed his chances of getting caught, and yanked open a dresser drawer.

 

This was his room too, after all.  He had a right to explore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thirteen year olds are infuriating, and I promise if you spend enough time around them you will have a conversation that follows this chapter like a script. 
> 
> That being said, I want to wrap little Shiro up in a blanket and keep him safe. Children don't deserve to be this angry. I know a few. Makes you want to fight the whole world, y'know?


End file.
